Unbearable
by RishiGenki
Summary: A blank, white room. The urge to stain and blotch it a bright, bloody red. Conceited faces, peering down and studying at all the mistakes that he made. Darkish!fic, rated T for reasons.


_Unbearable_

A Hetalia Story, by Rishi

Rated: T for adult situations, psychological issues, and - depending on the chapter - language.

_Summary: A blank, white room. The urge to stain and blotch it a bright, bloody red. Conceited faces, peering down and studying at all the mistakes that he made. The visitors to the hospital room of a lonely boy, wondering if maybe they were at fault here. If they could have done something, to prevent this suffering._

[A/N: Well, here I am, writing another story about Sealand as I deal with a horrid brain-block on _Rejected Kindness_. OTL.

This is actually an idea that I've had for quite a bit now - and when I say that, I think it's been about a month? More then that now, ha ha. The entire story has been planned ( for the most part - we'll see what happens and what changes during the course of this work;;;; )

This story is set around 2005-2007 - a bit before Peter was 'adopted' by Sweden. Please bear with me a bit, things will be explained in future chapters if not everything becomes clear now...enjoy!]

_The Unwanted Rescue_

The room is completely white.

White. Everything is white, no matter where his eyes search on the paneled ceiling. It hurts to look at when Peter Kirkland opens his eyes at first, but he can't seem to move his head to jerk away from the ceiling. Everything aches, and Peter wonders vaguely if he died...but no, death for nations, even self proclaimed ones like himself, was difficult to obtain. So he couldn't be dead. Not now.

He doesn't even give a second thought as to why he's in this room, this hospital room, with only the beeping of a heart monitor to make it register that he was indeed still alive. He doesn't bother to probe his memory, to try and remember something he will no doubt regret.

For the first time in a long, long time, he wishes that he had not woken from his slumber. Normally, Peter's dreams are filled with loneliness, of frightening, perpetual darkness and moonless nightmares, of days that Peter doesn't ever want to think of, ever again. But in the dreams that he had been ripped from that day, there was an aching nothing.

Nothing.

Safety.

He has hardly slept, these part few weeks and months. The smile on his face hasn't cracked, at least not to this point since those few weeks in August of nineteen seventy eight, when a blond haired German had broken Peter's facade away, stroking his tears and whispering that things would be alright. Promising. He had promised, and Peter had come out better from that encounter then he had been beforehand.

..but if things were really better, why was Peter in a hospital room, clothed in bandages on his arms and legs, his chest aching and heaving with each breath, a heart monitor beeping softly in the corner?

That was decades ago, he remembers vaguely. One or two decades...perhaps even three ten-year periods. It's hard to tell the passage of time, when you're forever stuck in a perpetual twelve-year old body. Peter's heart clenches up, and he wonders why he is remembering something painful right that, in a room that smelt like anticipant and sick people? Something that only reminded him that there was no place for him, in this place, a place where children are supposed to be surrounded by family. Of balloons and flowers, of chocolates and get-well cards scrawled in a kindergartener's shaking hand.

Peter could never get any of those things, no matter how many times he would wish on a star. Alfred's movies were only fairy tales, after all.

He casts his eyes away from the tauntingly white ceiling - and it was a horrible, blank white, how Peter detests it. The child hates the shade, despite his standard outfit being predominantly white in color. It was laughably ironic in a sense, Peter has to wrench a half-hearted grin out at the thought.

White reminds him of blank nothingness, of days that Peter does not want to remember, gazing up at the sea and sky melding together, the white blotching on pale blue, telling him of things he could never have. Things that he dreamed for, that he desired and prayed for. Of things, that Peter could never, ever obtain, no matter how much he wanted them.

He looks out the window for a moment, contemplating jumping out. It was tempting, achingly so, and if his limbs didn't ache as much he probably would have stumbled up and at least tried to undo the latch. Just in case.

As soon as the temptation crosses his mind, a knock on the door jars his train of thought away and towards the noise. Peter is barely able to turn his head, to find the person standing there gazing at him with a type of softness one would normally not expect from this nation in particular.

Even though it's already early spring, a scarf is wrapped around his neck, do doubt covering whatever scars and weapons he no doubt has on hand. Soft dark grey - almost silver - hair almost covers his eyes. Almost, but not quite. The smile placed there is not of a psychopathic child, as Peter always imagines him wearing, but pained. Strained, is more like it. Strained, and confused. It's obviously taking everything for this nation to stand there, smiling as if nothing is wrong.

Ivan is there, seemingly without a care in the world.

It makes sense. Russia is the one who found him. It hadn't been a dream after all. It was real, and what Peter had done was all too real as well.

Half of him had been hoping it was all a dream. A horrible dream.

The man clears his throat, before licking his lips and speaking.

"I trust you are satisfied, little comrade? Or, perhaps you would like another little one, a roommate of sorts, to talk to? I know things can get very lonely, I only want you in the best care possible, little brother of _Fredya_ and _Matvey_."

And it's at that point that Peter's chest aches once again. Ivan, however, makes no remark on Peter's facial expression, instead casually picking up a plastic chair from where it stood at the other end of the room and walking, boots clacking with each slow step, until he was at the side of the bed. Without asking, Ivan plops the chair down and sits there, back straight and hands folded at his lap, still smiling away. It's unnerving, just a tad, so Peter stiffens up and looks away.

"...where are we? What country…?"

God forbid that Ivan had taken him to _Russia_. How was he supposed to get home through Siberia?

Ivan hums at the question, reaching out with one and petting Peter's head. His hand is tense. Knowing. Still, the child can't object as the other tousles his hair, and with a small, high pitched laugh, Ivan withdraws his hand and replaces it on his lap.

"We are still in England, little one. Greenwich, to be precise," he notes, carefully watching Peter's expression with violet eyes. "I was surprised, to find you last night in that kind of condition. What type of nation would I be, if I did not help the little one when he is hurt?"

He pauses, as if to wait for an answer. Hearing none, Ivan's lips tighten slightly before he continues with a cheerful hum. "You know, little one, I was surprised, finding you in such an odd place. If I had not stayed behind to help clean up the messes that the rest of the nations had caused at the meetings, I would not have seen you. Tell me, why were you out so late at night? We all thought you had gone home once you had been kicked out, yes? After Arthur scolded you."

"_Will you fucking just leave the adults to their own matters? You don't have a place at the meetings, when will you learn that?"_

Peter gives no answer. Ivan does not wait for one this time. His eyes, which had been kind until that moment, turn prying and hard.

"Tell me, why was little one standing on top of a bridge in England so late at night, intent on throwing himself into the waters? And why did little Peter Kirkland jump as soon as I confronted him?"

"_Please."_

Ivan stops, then adds after a moment.

"_Don't come closer. Please."_

"What exactly have you become afraid of?"

Peter's breath hitches, as he feels his fists curl into themselves, intent on protecting himself. He takes a deep breath, and then another. The Russian turns his head slightly, to look at the sunlight streaming through the window. He speaks before Peter can.

"It hurts me, to see children so lost and sad. It hurts my heart. Reminds me of so many of us, of having to suffer through hundreds of years full of pain. I had thought the world had become better, more suited to children's needs. Even in my country, conditions have improved significantly for little ones your age," he says, softer this time. And he takes another long pause. Peter's too afraid to speak up.

"...it hurts me to watch you, crying so hard as if you lost hope. Tell me, little one, what happened?" he asks again, softer this time, brushing a gloved thumb onto Peter's cheek.

The child jerks away and shakes his head. Ivan's eyes narrow.

"...Peter. You must tell me, or I will have no choice but to inform your caretakers. They are...Bates, yes? The Bates family. They have been taking care of you for many years, wouldn't it pain them to see you this way?"

Peter murmurs something, under his breath. Ivan's frown deepens as he leans forward, brushing away the child's fringe. Peter doesn't jerk away this time. Instead, the tears start to build up, and he suppresses a choking noise.

"Th-they're trying to sell me. They don't need me anymore," he finally confesses, and his shoulders buck up as he lowers his gaze, hands placing themselves on his face, ashamed, trying to hide.

"They...don't _want_ me. And it's - I knew that all along, this day would come, but I still...!"

He stops there, as Ivan's hand is back on his shoulder and pulling him forward. Peter squeaks as his face is pressed against the scarf, and he bites down another sob.

He can't cry, not here. He still has to be strong, he has to be strong enough to be acknowledged, _because if he's not then he's a _goner_, he'll be done for and the sea will consume him _again -

"I...I...please d - don't tell Arthur,"

Ivan lets go, then, and Peter pulls back, rubbing at his eyes, a smile plastered on his face. Ivan almost looks aghast, and it's such a funny expression, that Peter can't help thinking it funny. He sucks in a breath and lets it all out, before nodding once more.

"...don't tell Arthur. Please."

Ivan stutters a bit, purple eyes blinking rapidly, trying to understand. And Peter _knows_ he won't understand, he knows that the Russian will go on and do whatever he wants anyway - because that's _always_ how it's been, Peter's wishes are always put aside and ignored for the greater good -

"_Please don't, I'm sorry, I'll keep trying for you. I know you're old and tired of trying so hard, but please, please don't leave me. You're the only people that I have."_

- Peter has to smile and bear the brunt, because he knows he can't control his citizens,

_they weren't even his to begin with, _they're Arthur's -

"_I promise I'll become a _real_ nation, I'll be recognized by someone, anyone, I swear, just wait a little longer - "_

- they don't understand. They really don't, none of these nations realize how _Goddamn_ _lucky_ they are and they'll never understand what it's like to live in that kind of fear, every day, and even if they did know, they would never comfort Peter about it because he _never let it get to him, because he had to stay happy, in case someone wanted to acknowledge him _-

"_Please, please, God, please. I keep wishing but they're going to leave, and I can't take that - I really can't - "_

- It hurts, and oh God, he can feel them slipping, he knows that soon it's going to happen and they'll go -

"_I don't want to die."_

When Peter finally thinks that Ivan is at a loss for words, the older giant coughs into his fist, looking at the Sealandic nation carefully. His brows are scrunched up, almost painfully so, and Ivan sets his hands down carefully.

"_Petya_,"

And it's no longer Peter Kirkland, because that name is so formal. Peter braces himself for impact, of _'I'm going to tell Arthur, he needs to know'_

Arthur laughing at him, laughing with that_ I told you so _look on his face.

"_Petya_." Ivan repeats, just for good measure. "I...do not understand why you do not wish to tell your brother of these matters. They are...most pressing, yes? Nevertheless…"

_- Here it comes, the big apology -_

"...seeing as you are, in your own words, a nation, I must respect your wishes, as much as I do not want to."

Peter balks. He jerks his head up, blinking hard. "W...what?"

He caught a glimpse of Ivan's smile flashing up at him, but Peter flinches again.

Oh, it hurt. It hurt to see something like that on Ivan's face. Such a sad, lonely..._understanding_.

"...I am sorry, _Petya_," Ivan replies again, standing up out of the plastic chair, reaching down to pat at Peter's shoulder. "However...I shall respect your wishes and not tell Arthur of this. But! Expect quite a few more visitors, yes? The least I can do for such a nice little comrade like _Petya_ is to send more wonderful friends to him…"

He hums, standing up straight as he adjusts his scarf. He gives another glance down at the other, eyes trained on Peter's blond head, but not quite reaching Peter's blue eyes.

"I will see you again, little comrade. But take care until then, yes? I will be frequently checking up to see that you behave. I am paying for your hospitalization, after all." he waves his hand, smiling, "Think nothing of it. But remember, okay? No need to pay back. This is not a matter between nations, you owe me nothing.

"I am simply Ivan, paying for little Peter's medical bills."

And with that, the Russian turns away, and Peter's left there, staring at the retreating back, mouth agape as he tries to piece together everything that Ivan had said.

All he's left with is a longing aching for companionship and the unbearably white ceiling panels, as he looks up at them and wonders exactly what he's going to do next.

**-TBC**


End file.
